


Both of You Together

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [63]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Allusions to death, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Dean Sings, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Genderfuck, Genderqueer Character, Happy Ending, Holidays, Homophobic Language, Lace Panties, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, POV Dean Winchester, Pets, Post-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Sam In Panties, Sick Sam Winchester, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2856485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ignorant people might say that Dean gets carried away with holiday decorations. </p><p>He’s making up for about forty Christmases where the best lights they had were the ones on houses they drove past. Dean doesn’t go one hundred percent Clark Griswold on their house. Sam would cut him.</p><p>This year's Christmas lights are interrupted by three things that are not the ghosts of Christmas: one nosy creature, an obnoxious next door neighbor, and Sam coming home early from work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both of You Together

**Author's Note:**

> "White Christmas" by Elvis towards the end of the fic. <3

Julio is Mrs. Martinez’s oldest son. He is fifty-six years old and no one would describe him as pleasant, not even his mother. As a young man in the outskirts of Mexico City, he was a boxer. His life centered around three things: the ring, his muscles, and women.

Aging, he will tell anyone who listens, is one of the cruelest things that can happen to a person.

Dean does not like Julio.

Julio does not like Dean.

The guy is too gruff and surly to be even remotely related to Mrs. Martinez. He shows up unannounced, two days after Thanksgiving, to crash on her couch. Two days into his stay, Julio breaks the hinges off the back door. That evening, Dean catches Mrs. Martinez trying to fix the door herself. He snaps at her about not knowing how to pick up the damn phone or ring the stupid doorbell; he happens to be A+ amazing at putting doors back on their hinges. For a few minutes, as he sets the screws, he mutters to her that he’s hurt at the fact that she wouldn’t trust him to do this.

She sends him home with a bag of Tupperware filled to the brim with enchiladas.

One whole week of Julio Martinez and the neighbors are talking. Sam reports—he heard this from the lady at the Laundromat—that Julio hasn’t worked in years and that he got involved with the wrong people. No more will be said about whom the wrong people were, but no one seems to explain how Julio came to be so unlike his mother. He is rude to Mr. Valz, Mrs. Martinez’s suitor.

Over dinner, Dean announces that he would enjoy giving Julio a taste of the wrong people in America. “And stop pickin’ at your plate, Sammy. Eat the damn thing or put it away.” He made eggplant parmesan because Sam asked for more vegetables. He didn’t specify how the vegetables had to be prepared.

Sam pushes his plate away. “I’m just… not hungry.”

“Does the food suck?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Did you eat out for lunch again?”

“I’m allowed to eat out for lunch if I want, Dean.”

Shaking his head, Dean clicks his teeth. “No, no, nope. You always fill up whenever you eat out for lunch and I tell you it’s not decent to go to bed without dinner. But whatever, you chose shit warmed up over what I put in front of you. I could have made steak.”

“ _No_ ,” Sam insists, frowning, “you couldn’t have. We had steak three times this week already and I’m not the one with high cholesterol.”

“You’ve been real snippy today, Sasquatch. What? What happened? Someone piss in your briefcase?” The faster they are off the subject of Dean’s cholesterol, the better. Eggplant parmesan isn’t bad, since he coated it with cheese and sauce, but it’s not a giant, juicy meatball or t-bone in front of him either. Christmas is in two weeks and he hopes Sam got the hint that he’d enjoy a night out at Morton’s Steakhouse. He’ll drop a few more hints this week.

Sam isn’t hungry but he takes a sip of the glass of wine Dean poured for him. Setting the glass down, he shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just… tired.”

“So quit working so much.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Who says?”

“I _like_ being busy.”

“Oh, well I _like_ relaxing.”

“Someone has to pay the bills.”

“You shot down Charlie last year,” Dean grumbles. He reaches for his beer. Before he takes a swig, he adds, “Could’ve had a million bucks but _no_ , you said we were _fine_. Fine. Fine, fine, fine.” Bottoms up; Dean takes two long pulls.

“Shut up, Dean.”

“You shut up, Sam.”

“It wasn’t right. I don’t wanna live off of hacked money. We’re done doing that. Don’t know if you remember—obviously you don’t—but we agreed we were going to start new and be just like everyone else.”

Last year, Charlie popped up in their lives almost as randomly as Julio had to Mrs. Martinez. She didn’t stay long, but what she offered certainly had an impact. The offer on the table was to diverge funds no one would even miss into an account for them that would ensure their comfort. Accroding to her, in her Trekkie sweater and Christmas themed leggings, the deal was nearly complete; she just needed to know where they wanted the money deposited. She was their ginger Christmas fairy. In thirty seconds, Dean spent ten thousand dollars of that money—on what, he’s not completely sure, but it felt good.

Mr. Morals said no. Actually, he said no thank you, but it’s difficult to remember that Sam was polite about it when a million dollars sifted through their hands like sand.

“Fuck everyone else.” Dean finishes his plate and works on Sam’s, because why let it go to waste? Eggplant parmesan sucks reheated. “You’re going to bed early tonight.”

Sam has nothing to frown about; if he didn’t want the stress of working, he would have asked Charlie, where do we sign? Still, the frown turns into a pout. “I have stuff to do.”

“You have jack shit to do. You’re going to bed when I go to bed.”

“But you go to bed so _early_ ,” Sam says, his nose scrunching.

“Ten o’clock is not early. It’s sensible.” Dean snorts. “I’m a god damned sensible person.”

“Do you work tomorrow?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

“Why?”

“Just asking.”

“Do you think the dude from Everybody Loves Raymond wants to punch himself as much as I want to punch Julio?”

“Don’t punch Julio.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

Pushed back from the table, Sam reaches for Dean’s plate. Dean slaps his hand away. He doesn’t need tired, cranky, sour pants Sam washing the dishes tonight. This is the beauty of having a brand new dishwasher. The washer and dryer might have given up on life, thus the necessity of the Laundromat, but at least the dishwasher hasn’t betrayed them. Dean finishes Sam’s portion and stacks the plates. He grabs his cane and hefts himself up from the chair. Getting up sucks. Being old sucks. But it’s not the worst thing. He can think of plenty worse—but he doesn’t.

“Thanks for the meal, Dean,” Dean mutters, swatting at the back of Sam’s head. “Aw, Sam, you’re welcome.”

Sour pants Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the meal, Dean. Sheesh.”

“You’re fucking welcome.”

As Dean rinses the plates and Sam sets up the couch in the living room for a movie, their house is quiet and peaceful. Dean looks up from the sink. From the window to the backyard he sees Julio arguing with Mrs. Vergara, an elderly woman who just turned ninety last week.

She strikes him with her cane—right in the side of the head. Julio retreats.

Dean cackles. Good for her.

 

Ignorant people might say that Dean gets carried away with holiday decorations.

He’s making up for about forty Christmases where the best lights they had were the ones on houses they drove past. When he was sixteen, this one civvie—whose husband was killed by a poltergeist—had the prettiest house for the holidays. It was something right out of a Martha Stewart catalog. That is the standard he aims to for every Christmas—good enough to remember despite a recent, brutal murder. Yep.

Dean doesn’t go one hundred percent Clark Griswold on their house. Sam would cut him.

The decorations make the neighborhood kids happy and Dean feels like he puts something in the world that is less destructive. Putting behind everything from before, Dean adds more twinkle lights every year.

Today, the weather isn’t complete shit. Dean decides to start the first layer of lights. Sam has told him multiple times not to be out on the ladder without him around to spot, but Sam didn’t listen to Dean earlier this morning so fuck him. All night, Sam was tossing and turning. Shit in their room was moving. At three, Dean snapped at Sam to take a fucking dose of NyQuil or get out. When it came time for Sam to leave for work at six, he refused to do as Dean said—stay home and rest. Whatever. Jerkbag.

Of course, Dean thinks what Sam needs is a few days of vacation. But not just any vacation—the kind where they leave the bed only for food, booze, and lube. There was a blow job two weeks ago that Dean enjoyed, but that is now like a distant memory. Sex would solve this bout of insomnia. Dean is sure of that as he opens the door to the garage.

Their house is tiny.

But it’s theirs.

With every passing year, Dean is thankful that they only have one storey to worry about. He sets up the ladder and does a shake test. The ladder doesn’t immediately topple over, so he deems it about as safe as it’s gonna get.

The garage is Dean’s domain. And just like the kitchen, he requires everything to be carefully organized. Every box has a purpose and a label specifically stating the contents. His tool box is always kept on hand, near the door. Some people just toss shit wherever there’s room in their garages; Dean knows how prepared _those_ people would have been for the apocalypse.

At eleven in the morning on a Monday two weeks before Christmas, barely anyone is outside. Winter break has not yet started. Dean takes advantage of the solitude on their block and hauls out an ancient stereo he salvaged from a garage sale two summers ago. In its time, this stereo was advanced—it has a CD player, a cassette deck, _and_ a radio. It runs on three D batteries, but Dean will forgive it for that. He uses an extension cord and starts the music as he rummages through the garage in search of boxes that say LAYER ONE.

REO Speedwagon blasts out of the stereo’s speakers. Creedence follows up. Muttering as he figures out the logistics of extension cords and outlets, Dean wishes John Fogerty would quit rereleasing old Creedence songs. It’s not the same without the rest of the band. Fogerty’s strong, but he can’t carry those songs on his own. And no one can bring up that new album with Fogerty and contemporary artists. What a fucking joke.

For their first Christmas here, they didn’t do squat.

Mrs. Martinez sent them over something called Mexican hot chocolate, but for the most part, they hunkered down and slept. Christmas presents had to do with the repairs on the house. Sam got Dean a tube of caulk and two packets of seeds; Dean got Sam blinds for the windows in the dining room so he’d quit bitching about people seeing them when they had sex on the table.

Last year, Dean got Sam a custom made solid oak chair. A bonafide ex-lumberjack on the North Side carved it and delivered it himself. Cost a fuck ton, but when it was unloaded and set into place inside what used to be Sam’s room, Dean had to give an extra fifty bucks for the work. The lumberjack had no problems following Dean’s specifications. Protective sigils are carved into the chair, running up the sides and legs, while one sentence in Elvish wraps around the back.

Sam spent most of Christmas morning translating the sentence into English.

“Where the fuck are the color lights?” Dean huffs and looks around for the box that should be marked LAYER ONE COLOR LIGHTS.

This year’s present keeps with their theme of things for the house. Sam already found his other present though, because he’s a god damned snoop. He wasn’t supposed to find the box of edible lube in the trunk of the Impala. A man has a right to keep things private in the trunk of his car.

Boxes are moved and Dean pokes at a few with his cane, trying to turn them so he can read the labels. After some time and more cursing, the desired box is discovered wedged in the back, which makes no sense. He didn’t put it there, because all four of the first layer boxes are meant to be up front. As he puts up lights and layers, he works his way into the stack. Clearly, Sam was moving shit around in the summer again and didn’t put everything back. How difficult is that? “You take something,” Dean grouses, “and you put it back. Babies can do it. Animals can do it.”

As he rearranges the boxes into their proper order, a sound is let out from near his feet.

“Meow.”

Dean freezes. He looks to his left, still hunched over and both hands on a box.

“The fuck do you want?”

“Meow.”

“Get out of here,” is snapped at the intruder. Dean shakes his left leg out in an attempt to hurry the creature’s departure. “Go on, shoo. Don’t got any Fancy Feast tuna here.”

The figure looks at his boot with a look that seems to say—please, a boot? It scoots its black body—complete with large ears and a swishing tail—back an inch and meows again. Other than that, it sits perfectly still, watching Dean shove a box of blue icicle lights back into the corner of the garage.

It has to be a neighbor’s cat. Jessica from three houses down is known to take in strays.

Holding a box, Dean assesses the one in front of him. He looks down at it and snips, “What the hell are you looking at?”

Several attempts are made to make the cat go away, none of which do more than spur amused looks from behind long whiskers. Dean eventually gets to work, deciding that once he finishes and goes inside that will be the end of his unwanted company. A few minutes after set up, the creature is gone. Good.

There is no snow on the ground yet, which is odd for December in Chicago. The pavement is dry. Baby can still be taken out for a spin around the block, but she can’t be left outside overnight. Around ten every evening the temperature drops and it feels like winter. It just doesn’t look like winter… yet. Dean knows better than to expect good weather to hold out. Snow might not arrive for Christmas, but they’ll be digging themselves out of five foot snowfalls soon enough.

Hanging lights is no more complicated than heart surgery.

Hands on his hips, Dean stands back at the end of the driveway. He tilts his head to the right. Huh. He tilts his head to the left. Huh. Funny, but either he is smaller or the house grew three sizes today.

“Okay,” Dean breathes out. He claps his hands together. “Let’s kick this in the ass.”

 

“I’m gonna give you til the count of ten… to get your filthy, no good, yella, keister off my property.”

“Dean, can you quote this entire thing?”

“I don’t have to answer that shit. Oh—one, two, ten! Ratatatatatatata….”

“Just like the monkey movies.”

“Wait, Sammy, wait…”

“…okay, go on.”

“Keep the change,” Dean mutters into Sam’s cheek, “ya filthy animal.”

“Are you done?”

“No, baby, all the good parts are just starting.”

“I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Ah, I don’t know what that means.”

“You were the one who was all, ‘You’re going to bed early and I smell bad.’”

“I must not smell that bad, your ass is all over mine.”

“Well… you’re warm. Come to bed with me.”

“I’m gonna miss the part with the spider.”

“What part with the spider?”

This couch is too small for the two of them. Dean lies on his back to prop his knee up, leaving Sam to lie on his side. Sam maintains a hand over Dean’s chest.

“Just watch it.”

“Dean, I just wanna sleep. I have a headache.”

“You take something?”

“No.”

“And you went to _Stanford_? Everyone knows when you get a headache, you take something.”

“Make me some tea.”

“Do I have to get up?”

“Please.”

That’s a cheap shot. And now he’s going to miss the spider scene. He peels himself off the couch and swats at the hands that grab for his ass. Grabbing his cane from the coffee table, he walks over to the kitchen and flips the light switch. The kettle was Dean’s Christmas present to Sam two years ago. He can’t remember how they made the switch from drinking coffee to tea. Must have been Sam’s idea. Probably.

As the water reaches a boil, he heads back to the living room.

Sam is asleep, sprawled out over the entire couch.

Joe Pesci screams on screen and Dean lets out a forlorn sigh. He definitely missed the spider scene.

 

A week before Christmas and Dean returns to the task of creating an outdoor masterpiece of lights.

It’s colder now, but there is still no snow. There’s no sun, either, and for the three hours that he fights with the second layer of multi-colored twinkle lights, he asks himself why they didn’t move somewhere warmer. Anywhere in the country they could have moved, but no, they got stuck in soggy, foggy, drippy Chicago.

With the garage in order, hauling out boxes is easier logistically; physically, Dean is thinking about hiring a few of the block kids to do this all for him next year. The ladder trembles against the side of the house and Dean finds himself freezing completely still. Shit. He didn’t do his wobble test. “Mother of fuck…” he murmurs into his jacket, looking around for something to grab onto in case the ladder decides to obey the rules of physics. Bushes. Okay. Those are soft. If falling happens, he should fall to the left. Out of all things to run through his mind at this moment—clinging to the ladder and his string of multi-color twinkle lights—it’s a Toy Story quote.

“This isn’t flying,” he whispers, not wanting to offend the ladder with noise, “this is falling… with style.”

Okay. Okay. If he just… doesn’t move too fast… or at all… he can do this. He can hang the last string of the layer that goes near the gutters and crawl back inside and nap, where it’s safe and warm. There’s no need for gravity to be a douchebag now, because what’s worse than potentially hurting his knee is the fact that Sam might have been right.

And Dean just can’t accept that.

Taking in a deep breath, Dean closes his eyes and mentally gears up for the final stretch. Easy does it. Ignore the ladder creaking. Block out the chill of the wind from up here. Dismiss the way the ground looks hard and unforgiving. Never mind the jolt the ladder gives as he extends his left arm. He’s killed shit ten times scarier than this. Fuck, he has jumped fences this height and tumbled down from them with the ease of… of… well, something really fucking graceful. Like, a swan or some shit.

The ladder is unfortunately positioned on an uneven patch of dirt made damp by all the recent rain. Their lawn is mushier than when he put on the first layer. But a little mud isn’t going to hold Dean down or prevent him from decorating the shit out of their house. These are just the lights; all the other decorations are still in their boxes. There are eight tiny reindeer waiting for Dean to rescue them from obscurity for their yearly show.

Reaching out, Dean opens one eye, grimacing as the wind picks up.

“HEY GRINGO!”

Dean falls backwards, ladder and all.

But he does fall to the left.

Grunting and groaning as he pries himself from the bushes he spits out a mouthful of shrubbery and grabs around for his cane. He may not be as sweet as Mrs. Vergara, but he bets he can hit just as hard as her.

Laughter from next door causes Dean’s shoulders to bristle. Aching all over, he stands up and stumbles forward, his feet lurching in opposite directions. Fuck. A test to his knee yields that an ambulance is not necessary, but everything is going to hurt like a bitch later.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” Dean barks, gripping onto his cane, his thumb hovering over the button that releases a blade on the bottom. “Are you fucking crazy? Huh?!”

Julio stands in front of Mrs. Martinez’s house with his hands on his knees, doubled over laughing. He shakes his head and motions for Dean to wait a minute. Oh fuck no. Fuck the blade. Dean’s got a pair of pliers in the garage and garbage bags large enough to fit even Julio’s fat, useless ass.

“Whatchu think you’re doin’, eh?” Julio wheezes out. His pudgy, hairy face is red. The urge to punch it is rising, rising… “You call those Christmas lights, gringo?”

One sausage-like hand is tucked into the waist of his pants; with the other hand, Julio scratches the beer belly peeking out from under his coat. In the time he has been in Pilsen, Julio has tried to prove himself as god’s gift to women and a big shot expert in poker. There is no word from Mrs. Martinez or sources close to the situation when exactly Julio plans to get the fuck out of Chicago.

Pointing his cane at Julio, Dean snaps, “Fuck you.” He turns around, towards the garage, because if he doesn’t he can’t guarantee his actions will be virtuous or clean. Instead of beating the shit out of Julio ala Godfather style, Dean should find the sign to the North Pole.

“Yeah, es okay. I know you got to do some swishing around over there.” Julio blows Dean a kiss. “You sure you wouldn’t want to put up red lights instead, ‘ey gringo?” Blubbery lips make kissy noises, then abruptly stop when Dean turns around. “Oh hey, don’t think that I swing thatta way, gringo. Look. Here comes your _wife_.”

Sam is a block away.

Dean tenses. It’s mid-day.

“You ever fuck pussy, gringo? Or can you not get it up for a real woman? ‘ey, don’t worry, I’m sure he fucks you like you have a pussy.”

Besides cramming the ladder down Julio’s throat, or cutting off his head and placing it on a spike on the lawn as a warning to others, the only thing Dean can do is crouch to the ground. There’s no snow. That’s all right. Hunters improvise with the materials on hand.

Dean scoops up a rock and pitches it, square into Julio’s gut, knocking him ass over kettle.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Dean takes quick steps towards Sam.

“What’s wrong?” is out of his mouth before he can take another breath. “Sammy, what’s wrong?”

Words said out loud might insist that he’s fine. They might lie. They might try to save face and be brave and brush everything aside in favor of looking the other way.

A voice Dean knows as well as his own speaks to him in a private, hushed, wisp of an echo.

 _I don’t feel well, Dean_.

 

Sam’s hands are softer than Dean’s.

It’s not because he hasn’t worked as hard as Dean; it’s because he takes care of his hands.

Scent-free lotion is worked between Dean’s hands before he applies a coat to Sam’s. Slick and warm, Dean massages long fingers and wide palms. Hands say a lot about a person.

Once, when he was sixteen, Dean had to impersonate a teenage psychic for a case. He did an impromptu palm reading for a witness. What surprised Sam and John at the time was the authenticity behind Dean’s front. Of course he had his story straight. Some things on a case could be half-assed, but extracting information from witnesses wasn’t an area Dean skimped on. A crack in his façade could ruin a potential lead and alert the local yokel law enforcement. Shit could go south fast. Besides, there had to be some use to the exhaustive hours of reading through lore.

Sam has air hands.

Square palms. Long fingers. Defined knuckles.

Air hands are the signs of someone inquisitive and passionate. Dean is careful with Sam’s left palm. He rubs in circles over Sam’s hands, loosening knots here and there, carefully pulling down and towards himself. Another pump of lotion and Dean starts over again.

He doesn’t mind the room being dark.

Nor does he mind the room being quiet.

He can listen to Sam breathe.

 

“I brought you soup.”

“Chicken noodle.”

“Eat it.”

“Eat it, please.”

Smaller huff.

“Gotta sit you up, Sammy.”

“I know.”

“I have tea here, too.”

“I’ll be here if you need me.”

Thank you.

 

Dean goes into work on the 23rd to pick up his Christmas bonus.

Luis pulls him aside in the garage, after everyone has had a chance to say hello. Tactfully, Luis mentions how much Sam and Dean have been missed at parties and get togethers. Will they be there tomorrow to have tamales and hot chocolate? Will they read from A Christmas Carol again? Because Tito’s nieces love Dean’s rendition of Scrooge and Sam plays such a good Tiny Tim.

“Compadre,” Dean says, clapping Luis on the back, “I barely got the tree up yesterday. We’ll be staying home this year, I’m sorry.”

Quietly, Luis mentions what his wife has told him. “Is Sam all right?”

The corners of Dean’s mouth pull. “Yeah, yeah. Stress. You know.”

“Maybe,” Luis murmurs, “Sam should not work so much?”

This time, Dean flashes a small smile. “You try tellin’ that to him. Tell Esperanza I’ll take a rain check on the tamales. And thank you.” Dean holds up his gift—a portable tool kit. “This is… pretty fuckin’ awesome.”

“You can fix the garbage disposal,” Luis laughs and holds his arms out. “I have tamales Esperanza packed for you early. But you don’t get them without a hug, my friend.”

It hasn’t exactly felt like Christmas to Dean this past week. The migraines have been relentless; Sam looks like shit. He’s losing weight and not getting much sleep. There’s a careful balance of NyQuil and sleeping pills that they maintain that affords Sam three hours at a time. But it’s almost better that Sam doesn’t sleep, because crap in their room keeps moving. The dresser moved five feet from its place against the wall to in front of the door, barricading them in—or keeping things out.

But this hug, plus the tamales, his gift, the cookies their receptionist sends him home with, and the sincere thank you he receives from Francisco make Christmas seem a little more real.

It’s odd to think that he has celebrated enough Christmases now, that when one is off, he feels it. He hugs the fuck out of Luis and hands him his present.

“What is it?” Luis holds up the silver charm with a sigil etched into it.

“You put that in your car and keep it there always. That’s all.”

“I will, my friend. Feliz Navidad, Dean.”

“Merry Christmas, Luis.”

 

These are the first five things Dean does when he wakes up on Christmas Eve.

He checks on Sam.

He goes back to sleep for another hour.

He checks on Sam again.

He gets up, goes to the bathroom, and comes back with a fresh compress that he lays over Sam’s forehead.

He runs a hand through Sam’s hair.

He pulls the covers up and around Sam, tucking him in.

He clears the nightstand of empty glasses, tissues, and plates from what Sam ate the night before.

He takes everything to the kitchen, places it all in the sink or the trash, and pours a new glass of cold water.

He sets the glass down on the nightstand and draws the shades a little tighter so that not one sliver of light filters into their room.

He pads back over to Sam’s side of the bed and scrubs at his own face, looking down at his brother’s.

These are more than five things. But they’re all important. So fuck that.

He places his right hand over Sam’s forehead, moving the compress aside. He has no clue what he’s doing. He closes his eyes and breathes in his doubts, exhaling something that feels like hope but it can’t be. Hope? Hope can be crushed.

The tree is set up and decorated. Dean did that by himself, except for two ornaments that Sam has to put up himself; one of them is the condom and Styrofoam ornament Dean made for him last year. The other is the pickle. Sam always puts the pickle in and Dean always cracks a joke about it. Because that is how things are. That is how things should be. That is what they fought to have and no one is taking it away from them. No one and nothing.

Dean has fire hands. Wide palms. Boxy in appearance. Thick fingers.

Fire and air work together well, if controlled.

They’ve scorched each other before.

Every ounce of focus is concentrated into the rough, calloused tips of Dean’s fingers. Pull. Extract. Take. His touch is never rough, though the muscles in his arms strain as heat rises. Sam stirs. Pain begins to prick on the surface of Dean’s fingertips. Teeth latch onto his nail beds, digging their way under, giving the sensation that his nails are being split down the middle one by one. Christmas. It’s Christmas Eve. He set up the tree yesterday; late but beautiful. The house isn’t done and Dean hasn’t had the energy to cook, but they’ve got a dozen tamales and he can make pancakes faster than Sam can pour cereal. This has to work. It has to.

The nightstand rattles. Sam moans, eyes closed, and turns his head away to lie on his side.

Again.

This time, Dean steadies himself, planting his feet apart and leaning over. Pain doesn’t reach past his wrists. It swims in the veins of his hands, rippling in the tender spaces between his knuckles, but it stops there, laughing at his efforts. The nightstand moves to the right, away from the bed. Next, the dresser quakes, all the drawers rattling and opening. Ignore it. Focus. Force the pain past the channel of his wrists and into his arms. Work it out. Focus.

The dresser falls over. Startled, Dean flinches. The connection is split. No. No, no, no, no…

Within seconds, his hands are cold.

And Sam is still in pain.

 

These are the repercussions of their life. These are the consequences, the leftovers, the residual chaos, the shit they’re stuck with because the world was theirs to save.

It still hasn’t snowed.

Lying bastards that are Chicago weathermen say it might snow around midnight. For now, at nine o’clock in the evening on Christmas Eve, there is wind and darkness. Dean sits on the front step of the house nursing a beer and one lukewarm tamale.

Sam needs to sleep. Moving around in the room or in the house upsets his rest, and Dean is too restless to stay still on the couch watching movies on mute. He put on his jacket, grabbed his supplies, and plopped outside. Sighing and scrubbing at his face, Dean looks around their block. Mrs. Martinez’s house is lit up and full of people; there’s not an inch of space in her driveway. Dean has kept the lights on the house off. It doesn’t seem right to have them on if Sam hasn’t been able to see them. This will pass. It has to. It has before.

A sinister question lingers, marring the peaceful silence of their street.

Dean doesn’t finish the tamale. He sets it aside and hangs his head in his hands.

They’re only getting older.

What…

“Meow.”

…the fuck?

“Mrrrrow.”

One of Jessica’s strays is back. The same black cat sits in front of Dean and cocks its head. Dean’s first reaction is to wave it away, hoping that it will turn tail and run back to where it’s wanted. “Go on,” he mutters when it won’t move. “What are you? The ghost of Christmas present? Go on, get out of here.”

Being a stray, the nuisance is small and on the thin side. Its fur is slightly matted, but Jessica’s care is still obvious. It isn’t starving and there is no gunk around its eyes like many of her new rescues. Don’t ask Dean how he knows this.

“Meow.”

“No.”

“Mrrrrrrow.”

“Shoo,” Dean snaps. He picks up his cane and taps the ground near the intruder. “Can’t you see? I’m having a fucking existential crisis on Christmas Eve.” A few cars pass by on the street. The temperature is beginning to drop and the faint ache in Dean’s hands has spread to his knee. He can practically hear Sam nagging at him to take an Aleve, quit drinking beer, and prop it up inside instead of sitting outside like an asshole.

Instead, all he hears is, “Meow. Meow.”

Irritated, Dean gets to his feet, less smoothly than he would care to admit. “Frah-gee-leh,” he mutters, picking up his half-empty bottle. “Must be Italian.” The cat blinks and stands, its tail up and swishing in assessment. Dean taps his cane near it again and it still doesn’t leave. “You should leave. You know, I make cat chili every Christmas.”

“Meow.” At the threat of being turned into chili, the cat rubs itself against Dean’s legs, probably leaving fur all over his jeans.

“Ugh.”

“Mrow.”

“If you’re a familiar, I’m gonna shank you. You got two seconds to return to Sabrina.”

Dean flips his cane so that he’s holding the end and the handle brushes against the cat. The handle is made of silver. It won’t harm familiars, but it will jolt a certain reaction out of them. All he gets in return is the start of loud, annoying purring. The intruder rubs its whiskers against the handle. Dean yanks it away before it becomes a chew toy.

“I have to go,” is curtly announced. “Whatever you’re tryin’ to pull, I sure as fuck ain’t fallin’ for it.”

The intruder gets the idea that it is welcome on the front step and waits near the door.

“I said no. N-o. Capiche?”

“Meow.”

“That’s getting old, jerkass.”

“Meow.”

A gust of wind pushes past, punching at Dean through his jacket. He grips onto his beer and opens the screen door to go in, ready to be out of the cold and check on Sam. Against his better instincts, he looks down at the intruder. “Fuck _no_ ,” Dean blurts out, his breath visible. “You are _not_ shivering. Quit it! Suck it up! Be a… whatever you are. Jessica has all the Fancy Feast tuna shit. Sam doesn’t let me keep tuna in the house because it kills the dolphins or some shit like that. So.” Dean’s nostrils flare. “You’re turning your ass around and hitting the road, pip squeak. This is Mordor.” He points to the house. “And one does not simply walk into it.”

Dean places his hand on the door knob, the other hand holding his cane and beer.

He is not a sap.

He will not be duped.

He doesn’t leave the door open longer than necessary to walk in.

He doesn’t.

 

Their intruder is a girl. She isn’t completely black, either. There are patches of auburn underneath her chin and just above her middle. At Dean’s estimation, she weighs in at about seven pounds. He fixes up a station in the garage so they don’t disturb Sam. This is his good deed for the rest of forever. He’s going to wash her, feed her a can of tuna—he lied, okay, that’s what Winchesters do—and send her on her way even if he has to deliver her to Jessica’s door.

What he doesn’t think through is how difficult it is to bathe a cat.

But he does discover that the intruder has been hiding weapons this entire time.

“Mother of fuck!” Dean hisses and the cat hisses back. “Jesus fucking… are you _walking_ on those things?! I’m bleeding. Are you happy? Oh don’t give me that look, princess. You’re the one who chose to come in here. Just…” Water sloshes around in the basin he’s filled with tepid water and mild soap. “…just hold still…”

It is far easier bathing a baby than it is a cat.

Soaked in the front and up to his sleeves, complete with scratch marks up and down his arms, Dean wrestles the intruder from the basin, trying to put her down on a pile of soft rags. Instead of cooperating, she does the stupidest flail, sliming and worming her way out of his grip in a series of manic twists. She breaks free with a bite of Dean’s hand and jumps down to the floor, sitting at the far end of the garage, facing away from him.

He’s ready to open the door and kick the ingrate out, complete with a parade of curses.

Nursing the latest and deepest wound where she got him, Dean steps forward. He sees how ridiculous she looks sopping wet, given a bath by a man who has never had to take care of any animal for an extended period of time. Before, she was fluffy and sleek.

“You look like a rat,” Dean snickers, shaking his head.

One more step forward and she hisses.

He holds his hands up. “Okay, I take back the rat comment. But you made me bleed my own blood. You’ll pay for that. I’m gonna cuddle the shit out of you when you’re dry.” He says cuddle because it seems like it would piss her off. While she finishes the important work of licking herself, Dean empties the basin into the drain and collects the unused rags. It’s still cold in the garage, even though he has it heat controlled for baby in the winter, so he decides that it doesn’t matter what the intruder wants. She’s going to be dried.

“For your own god damn good,” Dean mutters, advancing and being hissed at. “You were in love with me ten minutes ago. I try to clean you up and this is the fucking thanks I get?”

Determined, Dean picks her up by the scruff. She does this low growling in her chest that vibrates and meows loudly when wrapped in a towel. “Stay… still…” Dean argues with her some more, placated by the fact that this is one of Sam’s towels. In two minutes he has her dried off as much as is going to happen and he’s tired of losing skin cells. He opens the door to the house and she zips past, way ahead of him, acting like she’s got somewhere to be.

“Not on the…” Dean starts to say, but loses the battle. “…couch.” She plops herself down in the exact middle so that no one else can sit there, curling up and licking herself still. She has to be sure to get the scent of Dean off of her completely.

This is a joke. Right?

Jessica sent this beast over to mess with him. In two minutes, he does a series of tests on the intruder as she licks her coat. He checks to see again if she’s a familiar, then a shifter, and a few other things just to be absolutely sure. Those two minutes are all it takes to be sure that this creature is nothing more than a pip squeak, manipulative stray cat. The crook on the end of her tail that Dean notices during his tests suggest that she was probably the runt of her litter.

“Well,” Dean mutters, standing up and brushing his hands on his jeans, “sucks to be you, doesn’t it?”

If Sam could hear him, Sam would be punching his shoulder and rushing in to comfort the intruder and make sure her feelings weren’t hurt by his comments. Well too bad, Sam isn’t here to defend the Queen of Sheba. “I have my own animal to check on,” Dean informs the cat, who doesn’t look up from her business. He goes into the kitchen, retrieves a can of tuna, and plops it down on the floor with a towel underneath just in case she’s a messy eater.

“You stay here. If you pee on anything, you’re out. I don’t care if we’ve suddenly ended up in the North Pole—you’re done. Got it?”

She flicks her head and begins cleaning her whiskers. Whatever.

Quietly, Dean murmurs, “Shitter was full.”

“Mrow.”

He nods and leaves.

 

At eleven thirty, Dean gets into bed next to Sam. He lifts up the covers, slides in, and lets out a relieved sigh as Sam reaches out for him.

Their room is a mess.

The dresser split in half.

Dean presses a kiss against Sam’s forehead and places a concerned hand over his brother’s cheek. Eye to eye, they look at each other. Words aren’t said—out loud or otherwise—because they know the drill. Dean searches; Sam doesn’t hide. This was bad. He was frightened and in pain and it hurt him just to think about light or sound—even the sound of Dean’s voice.

Some things in their life as they know it now are simple. Dean works three days a week at the garage. He has moved up from working on oil changes and basic maintenance to maintaining his own client base. His specialty is maintenance on classic American cars. Francisco turned over the few clients he had at the garage with those cars; within six months, Dean tripled that number. Suggestions have been made for Dean to set up his own garage and work full-time on the ‘Cudas and Bonnevilles and GTI’s that come through. He’s had offers made on baby—cash. The answer to both those things is a two letter word… sometimes followed by a four latter word just for emphasis. He’s too fucking old to own and run a business. Francisco treats him well. The pay is good. His hours are whatever he wants to work. At the end of the day, working for someone else ain’t so bad. Work is work. Home is home.

Ten hours every week, Dean volunteers at the museum where Sam used to spend more time. He guides field trips through the two galleries or serves as a docent when it’s quiet. Most of the time, he gossips with the ladies in the gift shop and swaps recipes. He’s gotten leads on the perfect mole.

At home, Dean has surprised himself. He reads a little. Most of the time, he drags his record player out of the office and into the living room so he can sprawl out on the couch and just listen. That’s all he’ll do for a few hours—lay down and either doze off or lose himself in the music. Two weeks ago, he did a small marathon of bootleg Zeppelin albums.

Shouldn’t he be restless? Shouldn’t he be searching for hunts in the area? Shouldn’t he be depressed at the course his life has taken?

From time to time he’ll stretch out his feelers and pick up on a case nearby. If a hunter is near, he may or may not give suggestions on how to eliminate the problem. If a hunter isn’t nearby, he may or may not suggest to Sam that they liven up their Saturday night. There was a nasty poltergeist in the South Side last August. And after that, a rogue werewolf in Little Village in October. In early November, a demonic possession occurred near Indiana, which Dean was ready to help with, but Kevin, of all people, showed up and handled it. He stopped for tea after his hunt. It was weird.

No one who visits asks about their new arrangements.

Not a word is said about the single bed in the largest room and the office across the hall. They sleep in the guest room and don’t mention the fact that they have their own bathroom during their stay.

Kevin and Sam sat in the office for two hours, talking and possibly nerding out over the first edition Tolkien books Dean got Sam for his birthday. Dean walked in twice with a tray of tea and sandwiches. That was weird, too.

Some things in their lives aren’t simple. There are so many questions about what might happen in the future. These questions taunt Dean at the most random moments throughout his day. In the spring, he planted tomatoes. When he was picking dozens of them in the summer, a question floated through his mind.

Who will die first?

There is no acceptable answer whenever that question strikes.

Can’t they live forever?

“Sam.”

“Hmm?”

“Stop working so much.”

“But…”

“No. Listen to me. Please.”

“Okay.”

“The house is paid off. I know you’ve been saving. I make good money for what we need. Volunteer somewhere, do community work, I don’t care what the fuck you do, but… I need you here.”

“You don’t need me here.”

“Jesus…” Dean closes his eyes for a second. “What a stupid… do you hear yourself?”

“You know, I don’t really feel like arguing with you.”

“Tough shit,” Dean snaps and sits up in bed. He places distance between them that hurts. “Do you work so much for a reason, Sam? Besides the money? Are you running your ass into the ground to prove something, huh? What? Like… maybe if you work really hard at a normal job, you can erase everything that’s gone on before?”

Sam shifts and rolls over onto his side, facing away from Dean. The sheets and blankets rustle from the movement. Their room is dark still, from the curtains and the thick darkness of midnight.

“Kevin looked like shit.”

“Yeah, he did. So?”

“That’s my fault.”

“That’s not your fault. That’s his fault.”

“Charlie… was awkward around us.”

“That was the first time she visited here.”

“She knows.”

“They all know,” Dean presses. “Kevin knows. Garth knows. Jody knows.”

“Jody?”

Dean rolls his eyes and lies down again, flat on his back. “Get with the times, Sam. We’re old news. Do you think if you’re not home much, that means we are somehow less involved with each other?” He is tempted to say something crasser, but he figures now is not the time to mention butt sex. “The more you’re at work, the more normal we are?”

Silence signifies a nerve has been touched.

“I broke the dresser,” Sam whispers. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

Hunters don’t age. They don’t.

So they slowly have to be something else.

“I can boil water with my own hands,” Dean whispers back, staring at the ceiling. “And I got at least a hundred feet radius of telepathic ability with you but no one else. Oh, and I can move shit just like your goofy ass.”

Broad shoulders tense up. Sam has curled in on himself as much as possible, bending and twisting his frame to be as small and unobtrustive as possible.

Shifting closer, telegraphing his movements, Dean mumbles, “I don’t know what will happen.”

Dean might die first.

And in a way, he hopes he does, because he could never again go through the other option. He could never be in a room with Sam sleeping forever, his hands clasped over his chest, his hair fanned out, and his eyes closed but his chest remaining still.

This is Christmas. They should be gorging on tamales and spiked egg nog.

He wraps his arms around Sam and squeezes them close together. Sam lets out a small noise, moving fast to hide his face in a fistful of blankets.

For the longest time, no one moves or speaks.

Time passes but Dean loses track of it. For a moment, he swears he hears a voice that is not either of theirs. It flits past, like a shout over a train. It’s difficult to make out, if it exists at all, he’s not sure. But it sounds like someone sharply saying:

Both of you together.

And that could mean a lot of things.

 

Somewhere around four in the morning, they exchange presents in bed without leaving it.

Dean goes first.

“I got you two things.”

“Yeah?”

“I got you keys.”

“Keys to what? Your heart?”

“Shut up. Don’t ruin my moment.”

“Uh huh. So you gonna tell me what the keys go to or do I have to find out?”

“Don’t be a smart ass. I got you keys to baby.”

“You did?”

“They’re your own set.”

“Wow.”

“I put a keychain on them.”

“It better not be the keychain you bought last summer, the one where the woman’s clothes fall off.”

“…of course not.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Shit.”

Sam sighs and moves closer. They are nose to nose, bundled up under layers of blankets. Sam’s cold feet touch Dean’s warm feet. “Thanks, Dean.” A kiss is pressed to his chin. “I got you a new coat and shoes.”

“That’s so romantic,” Dean snorts. “But thanks.”

“Oh,” is laughed into Dean’s chest. “He wants _romance_.”

“Well, would it hurt you? I mean…”

“Shut up.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Sam murmurs and moves his hands to clasp over Dean’s, “I’m gonna give you your second present. Since you shot down my first.”

“I still want the jacket and shoes.”

“Now _you_ are ruining my moment.”

“Shutting up now.”

For a moment, Sam’s hands stay still over Dean’s. His thumbs rub circles over Dean’s palms. This is stalling. Courage has to be worked up. Dean counts to thirty in his head. Thirty seconds where Sam is unsure of how to proceed or if he even should. Thirty seconds of maybes.

Just as Dean reaches thirty-one, Sam’s hands move again. He guides Dean’s hands to extend out, towards him. Their hands push up the sweater Dean salvaged from the dresser and Sam changed into an hour ago. Over the curve of Sam’s hips, their hands reach their destination and rest.

The tips of Dean’s fingers feel the skin underneath delicate lace.

Sam is barely breathing. He awaits rejection or acceptance.

This is one of those things in their lives that should be complicated, but it’s not. It’s actually very simple to Dean. It has its complexities, of course, but Dean understands. He doesn’t make it more convoluted than it needs to be. He turns his hands up, squeezes Sam’s, then turns them down again and gives Sam’s ass a hearty grope.

“They’re red,” Sam breathes out, relieved.

Dean’s mouth waters.

He discovers a bell on the front, sewn under a perfect bow.

A stretch of skin—from Sam’s collarbone to his jaw to his ear—is kissed. Dean doesn’t take his hands off their place of origin. He hauls their hips close together and their mouths meet, hungry and desperate. Teeth bite down on the swell of Dean’s bottom lip. Their noses bump. Dean hooks a leg over Sam’s and rolls them over so that Sam is over him. His hands remain plastered over lace and the firm, fleshy curve of Sam’s ass.

From the dark, Sam gives a quiet order.

“Touch me.”

Careful fingers trace the outline of Sam’s cock. Dean teases. He alternates between groping and slapping Sam’s ass to stretching the panties over a growing bulge he’d like to take deep in his throat.

The sweater is one of Dean’s.

Sam has his hair swept up, messy and falling in pieces to frame his face. His ass grinds down against Dean’s hips, rubbing, enticing, and promising.

Only the lurch of the nightstand interrupts them.

“Sorry,” Sam laughs, covering his mouth. “That was me. Grab the lube.”

Everything falls into place after that.

Slicked up, Dean pushes into Sam, holding the panties to the side with one hand and groping with the other. He sits up for leverage as Sam sinks down, meeting every push Dean gives. The burn is exquisite. Muscles flutter around the aching, flushed length of Dean’s cock. Sam’s hands move. Expressive. Elegant. Air hands. They are all over Dean, running through his hair, cupping his jaw and forcing them as close as possible, so that every thrust is breathed in and out through each other.

Dean keeps his hands on Sam’s ass.

He shudders when Sam tightens, clenching purposefully, causing the bloated tip of his cock to twitch as it hits the edge of a desired spot. Sam’s hips swivel, tight and sure; the muscles there work in the firm grip of Dean’s hands. The bed creaks. Sam leans forward, pushing Dean back. Their hips piston faster and although their kisses become sloppy, they remain unbroken and uninterrupted. Long fingers scratch down Dean’s bare back. Loud moans are etched into choice places over Dean’s back that simultaneously relax and excite him. The base of Dean’s spine is rubbed. Sam moans into Dean, hips corkscrewing hard and fast.

The bell jingles.

Dean flips them, slipping out to lay Sam down flat. In a moment, he moves over Sam, leaning down, lining up their hips. The panties are brushed aside by rough, freckled hands. With Sam’s legs wrapped around his waist, Dean pushes into velvet heat with a squelch and a groan.

Who cares what happens.

They’re home.

The force of Dean’s thrusts wrings the most primal, desperate noises out of Sam. On every other stroke, he hits a bundle of nerves, rewarded with Sam screaming for him to fuck there—there, right _there_.

Pounding into Sam, Dean stretches until their mouths meet. Sam pulls him down, hands on Dean’s jaw. “Touch me,” Sam punches out, followed by a heady, deep moan. Their breathing tangles together. “Dean, please…”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

The panties aren’t his Christmas gift—they’re just the wrapping.

Dean pushes them down and wraps his right hand over the hard, flushed length of Sam’s cock. Fire hands. The rough pads of his fingers push underneath the sensitive crown, rubbing, flicking, coaxing. The pain from his hands and knee are forgotten. He’s too wrapped up. He is consumed in the best of ways, pulled in and needed.

“Coming,” Sam gasps, pressing careful thumbs against precise places on Dean’s neck. “Dean… coming… I’m gonna…”

Electricity races from where Sam applies pressure.

He trusts Sam.

And Sam trusts him.

Dean strokes Sam in time to his thrusts. He fucks into Sam until an orgasm hits, come spurting in long, wild ropes over both their middles. Hot. Tight. Mine. Sam increases the pressure and the angle changes.

Faster. Faster, please. Dean isn’t sure if he’s saying that or if Sam is. He’s not sure if those are words spoken out loud or otherwise. He just knows that his hips are slamming against Sam’s and that the lace scratches at his skin in the most decadent way. Sam’s fingers are perfect. Greedy, Sam fuses their mouths together, biting down on Dean’s lip. This forces Dean to exhale his orgasm directly into Sam.

Twitching, shuddering all over, Dean comes, buried deep, his back arching.

Spilled over. Wrung out.

Both of them together.

Whatever that means, Dean will take it

 

“I slept in the wet spot.”

“Mmph. Merry Christmas.”

“You could’ve cleaned me up, you know.”

“Go’way. Sleep. Sleep good.”

“I can’t believe I broke the dresser. It was a good dresser.”

“We’ll buy a new one.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Can the point be you shutting up?”

“Nope. I’ve been sleeping this whole week and now I have so much energy. Let’s fuck again.”

“Sam, it’s not even seven.”

“You’re right. I do want a shower first. And then I wanna fuck.”

“No.” Dean reaches out. He places a hold on Sam, wrapping his arms around him. “Stay.”

Laughing, Sam counters, “You told me to go away.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Hey.”

“Huh.”

“I love you.”

“…right back at you.”

“Dean!”

“Ugh… you’re so fuckin’ needy.”

“You told me to stay.”

“Guess I did.”

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“Sing me something.”

“You sing me something.”

“Uh, we both know that I inherited the brains in our family and you got the voice.”

“And the cooking skills. Oh, and the ability to sleep in on Christmas.”

“Shut up and sing me something. It’s been too quiet.”

“I’m not your monkey. I don’t just perform for you.”

“Please, Dean?”

“Fiiine. But after this you’re done. No more presents. That’s it.”

“Okay.”

Later on, their neighbors will surprise them. Lead by Mrs. Martinez and Luis, dozens of people from their block and neighborhood will take time out of their holiday to stop by with food and decorations. Tupperware after Tupperware will be piled high on their dining room table. Kisses on the cheek will be given. Feliz Navidad! Merry Christmas! Tito’s nieces will bring a plate of cookies sent to Sam and Dean from their mother. They will forgive the absence of Scrooge and Tiny Tim this year. Mr. Valz will quietly help Dean sweep up their bedroom and enlist the help of a few men to haul out the broken, emptied dresser to curb.

Luis will ask them both to come outside.

People will gather on their driveway and not an inch of space will be available for the show.

Surrounded by people they know, Sam will get to see Dean’s Christmas lights. And right in front of Julio, Sam will grab Dean by the shirt and yank him in for a big, wet kiss.

Mrs. Martinez herself will elbow Julio in the gut the second he opens his mouth to comment.

The rest of Christmas will be loud and busy. But they don’t know that yet. Just like they don’t know a lot of things. They do, however, know that what happens to them in the next hour, or day, or year, it will be both of them together. Whatever that means.

For now, Christmas morning is spent plastered against each other. Their sheets smell like them. Dean moves around and the bed creaks. He lies flat on his back and opens his arms so Sam slots into place beside him. This. All of this. This is one of the simplest things in their lives. Dean gets torn up about it sometimes, and he knows that Sam needs to work through some things that only he can figure out, but there’s one bed and one room and no one asks questions.

He has a few Christmas albums on vinyl. One of his favorites is Elvis’, even though Dean is not crazy about Elvis overall.

For the first time in a week, the blinds to their room are open and daylight filters in.

His voice is shot, so he keeps his pitch low and his words languid. The rumble of them sinks into Sam.

“I’m dreamin’ of white Christmas…” he thrums his fingers against Sam’s arm. They lay chest to back. Dean makes the blinds open a little more. There are no complaints from Sam. “Just like the ones I used to know. Where those tree tops glisten and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow.” He taps over to Sam’s nose. “I’m dreamin’ of a white Christmas, with every Christmas card I write.”

He sings it slow and easy, the way Elvis sang it. For the piano that’s supposed to play in the interlude, he hums into Sam’s hair, tapping the tempo.

“May your days be merry and bri-i-i-ght. And may all your Christmases be white.”

The blinds reveal a light dusting of snow. The weathermen can be forgiven just this once. Snowflakes fall at the same pace Dean sings—unhurried. Their bed is warm.

“I, I, I, I’m dreamin’, of a white Christmas. Just like the ones I used to know.” He slows it down here. Sam clasps his hand over Dean’s. They both breathe in at the same time. “May your days, may your days, may your days be merry and bright. And may all your Christmases be white.”

A few more hours of sleep will be attempted. Today, no one is changing out of their pajamas.

Maybe Dean will put this album on later.

For now, Sam kisses Dean’s hand.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, sounding amused, “are you purring?”

“Huh?”

“It… it sounds like you’re purring.”

Oh shit.

Dean sits up, panicked.

There is an intruder on their bed.

Before Sam notices, Dean blurts out, “Sam, I… uh… I love you.”

“Took you long enough,” Sam huffs. “But what’s wrong? You got up so… what… is _that_?!”

“Heh, well… Merry Christmas, Sammy! I’ll go make us breakfast.”

“Dean!”

“Can’t hear you!”

“Dean… get… we were going to talk about this!”

“…already in the kitchen!”

“DEAN. Don’t leave me alone with it!”

“The shitter was full!”

 

Epilogue:

 

The next morning, Sam wakes up completely migraine free.

He also wakes up to the sight of Dean passed out, snoring away, oblivious to everything.

There is also a cat curled up on Dean’s face.

Sam sighs.

He smiles and goes back to sleep.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

**Author's Note:**

> first off: a friend of mine is missing. if you could please reblog this and spread the word, i would be very grateful. http://ittakesalotofwater.tumblr.com/post/106202291048/insectaffection-chicago-area-trans-community
> 
> okay, here is some christmas fic! slightly late, but i also kinda got carried away. i never expected this to be 10,000 words. that officially puts me at 800,000 words published overall. damn. o_o
> 
> leave me comments because i would love to hear from all of y'all about this. i tried to keep it a mix of light and dark. but you get everything awesome here: sam in panties, some angst, and dean falling off a ladder. XD AND A NEW ADDITION TO THEIR HOUSE. woah. finally! XD 
> 
> oh, please let me know: is it okay posted as-is or would you like me to split it into chapters? let me know what works best. i'm tired so i'm posting in one large block.
> 
> also, to answer some of y'all: in TCV, no one is ultimately left without the other. i won't tell you the end of the series (because i'm not ready to end this by any means) but don't worry. their eventual end keeps in line with the rest of the series (not the show), meaning it's peaceful. and y'know... death is only the beginning of a new adventure. :) 
> 
> okay, now i get to sleep. i'm exhausted. it's been a tough day. but thank you to all y'all reading this and merry christmas! i hope it was a great day for everyone. <3


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